


Invite a Stranger

by lookninjas



Series: The One Where They're All Strippers [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Mercedes Jones is not freaking out.  (Or:  The one where Mercedes is introduced to Blaine and Cooper)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invite a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Part of The One Where They're All Strippers. Song title, again, is from "Glitter in the Air" by Pink.

Miss Mercedes Jones is not freaking out.  
  
Yes, the last time she saw her BFF, he was standing at the bar at one of those San Francisco clubs with the battered little stage and the motheaten red velvet curtains and the Christmas lights on the walls and the persistent smell of gin and old cigarette smoke, still in his flesh-toned lycra body suit with the strategically placed glitter.  And yes, he'd been with two (TWO) men at the time, both of them looking like male models and apparently named after characters from 80s movies.  And yes, as Mercedes had kissed him on the cheek and wished him luck before making her way out of the club and off to find her car, she'd wondered, briefly, whether she should stay.  Because while it looked like Kurt was on his way to the single most spectacular one-night stand story in history (at least, in the history of her friends, anyway), there _were_ two of them and only one of him, and yes, Kurt was tougher than he looked, but even so.  And she knew how people got the wrong idea about Kurt sometimes, saw him hanging out with the people he hung out with and wearing the clothes he wore and doing the kind of things he did, and they made assumptions about the kind of person he _was_.  And a blushing virgin he most certainly was not, but at the same time, Kurt didn't throw himself around either.  Even for two gorgeous boys whose parents needed to watch less Andrew McCarthy movies.

Except it wasn't like Kurt had had many chances with two gorgeous boys named after 80s movies, and he certainly seemed excited that one had finally come up, so Mercedes had kissed him on the cheek and told him to call her as soon as he got home, and she'd left him there at that bar, with one guy on either side of him, and hoped she wasn't making the wrong choice.

And she didn't actually think that she had -- after all, she was Miss Mercedes Jones, and she pretty much always made the right decisions.  Especially when it came to the care and feeding of Mr. Kurt Hummel.

It's just that she'd feel even more secure about how right she was and how safe Kurt was with her if he'd called her in the morning with a breathless tale of boys and flirting and possibly even some PG-13 or R or even NC-17 rated action, perhaps backstage at the club or in a booth at a different club or maybe even in someone's hotel room or apartment or...  Wherever, as long as she knew they'd taken him somewhere nice and treated him right, and that he wasn't in a ditch somewhere and she wasn't the worst friend ever who had absolutely terrible judgement and had wound up getting Kurt killed and what if she had to tell his father?  Because she didn't think she could do that.

And she didn't really think that was going to happen, because she didn't really think she had terrible judgement, and she didn't really think those boys were going to kill Kurt and drive his body out to the desert where no one would find him for fifteen years. 

And she _wasn't_ freaking out.

But it had been almost twenty-four hours since she'd left Kurt in that bar, and she'd yet to hear so much as a peep from him, and even if he had the best sex of his life and champagne brunch afterwards, he still should've called her by now.  
  
So if she is maybe a little bit faster than usual in grabbing for her phone when it finally ( _finally_ ) rings, and if she barks "All right, boy, this better be good," into the phone with a little more force than she usually would -- Well, she's just proving her point.   
  
Which is that she is not freaking out.  
  
But if she was freaking out, she damn well had her reasons.   
  
Not that Kurt cares, because the first words out of his mouth are "Mercedes, oh my _God_ ," in this voice that somehow manages to be dreamy, elated, and semi-hysterical all in one go.  And she hasn't forgiven him for the potential panic attacks he could've given her if she was the sort of person who doubted herself (even though she isn't).  But she's softening.  Maybe.  A little bit.

It's hard not to.  Kurt has his bad days, and he's a nightmare when he's moping, and when he's really, really pushed, he can be as vicious a bitch as anyone Mercedes has ever met (and that's including Santana, who's evil even when she's trying to be nice).  But when he's happy...

He makes her happy, when he's happy.  The way best friends are supposed to.  
  
So she settles herself on the sofa and tucks a pillow in her lap, just in case she needs to squeeze something (in a completely non-freaking-out way, of course). "All right, you," she says, and listens to Kurt's happy sigh echo from her phone, and doesn't bother trying to fight the smile spreading across her face.  "Tell me _everything_."  
  
*  
  
A little less than a week later, Mercedes finds herself in a table near the back of a club called _Miss Holliday's_ (it was, apparently, supposed to be _Miss Holliday's School for Naughty Boys_ , but that's way too much name to fit on a sign, so they shortened it), and really, that's about all there is to say about that.  
  
Except Kurt's there with her, practically bouncing out of his seat with excitement and nerves, all shining eyes and pink cheeks and tapping fingers and toes, and so apparently there's more to say after all.  
  
It's not Kurt's usual kind of club, that's for sure -- it's all neon and chrome and squealing straight girls in ticky-tacky tiaras with great big penises on the tops, and there's shirtless guys in jeans wandering around offering electric blue shots, and the last time Kurt took her somewhere where they offered shots, they were being served in test tubes by boys in lab coats and girls in corsets and goggles.  But Kurt doesn't seem to care; his eyes are on the heavily-polished stage, waiting eagerly, and Mercedes has to wonder what exactly he's expecting.  Okay, she hasn't been to one of these shows before, but she's seen male strippers in movies and that one time at Santana's, and yeah, they can call themselves dancers all they want to, but honestly, dancing isn't really their strength. 

Which wouldn't be a problem, but this is Kurt, and he's not looking for some muscle-bound stud to play arm candy for a while.  Kurt's an artist, and he needs someone who's going to be able to keep up with him.  And while Kurt might think that this Blaine guy is obviously the most sensitive, intelligent, talented boy ever... Well, Mercedes just isn't sure how a guy like _that_ would find himself in a place like _this_.

She looks at Kurt, at the way his legs are crossed, one foot bouncing in the air, and immediately feels like the biggest bitch on the planet.  Because yeah, she could wonder how a sensitive, artistic boy would wind up here.  She could also wonder how a sensitive, artistic boy would wind up sewing ruffled panties and corsets and tear-away cheongsams by day and then twirling from ribbons in a lycra bodysuit by night.  But she doesn't, because she doesn't judge Kurt, because she knows better.  She's got every reason to give Blaine the benefit of the doubt, and no reason not to.  
  
Of course, if Blaine really isn't all he's cracked up to be, she'll never have to come back here and sit at this table and look at girls in penis crowns getting shots and lapdances from shirtless guys in jeans. 

Except just the thought makes her feel so guilty that she has to reach out for the nearest shot guy and shove a ten-dollar bill in his waistband, just to prove that she's really committed to this and that if this is the guy for Kurt, then she will help Kurt get his man if it damn well kills her. 

The money gets her a brief bump-and-grind (a pale muscular chest too close to her face and a denim-clad crotch hovering over her knee, but at least the boy smells good and doesn't overdose on Axe like most guys she knows) and a shot of something that tastes like fruity, over-sweetened Windex poured down her throat.  Then the shot boy climbs off her, slides a shot glass in front of Kurt with a wink, and makes his way back towards the bar.  
  
"Wow," Kurt says, raising an eyebrow at Mercedes, momentarily too busy being judgmental to vibrate with excitement (although Mercedes swears she can still feel the _BlaineBlaineBlaineBlaine_ echoing from somewhere deep inside him and shaking his nerves into tatters).  "You're really getting into this, Mercedes."  
  
She pushes the shot towards him and doesn't say anything at all.  
  
(Five minutes later, the shot boy is back with two more glasses of raspberry Windex; when Mercedes goes for her purse, he shakes his head and points back at the bar, where a vaguely-familiar dark-haired boy is standing, staring at them with wide eyes and looking almost exactly as nervous as Kurt does.  Mercedes gives him a little wave, and he doesn't return it, doesn't move at all until Kurt finally realizes who sent them the shots and starts smiling and blushing and waving like an idiot.  Then the boy waves back, grinning a little hesitantly, and Mercedes knocks back her second shot in a hurry.)  
  
*  
  
Three hours later, Mercedes has learned the following things about Blaine Anderson:

  * He's actually a pretty decent dancer
  * With a more than decent body
  * And a more than decent-looking brother
  * Who is also a decent dancer
  * And has a decent-sized house
  * In which he likes to be a more than decent host



Of course, this doesn't tell her much about Blaine, about what he's like as a person and whether or not he'd be good to Kurt the way that Kurt needs someone to be good to him.  She's going to have to find out more about him.

She's not entirely sure how she's going to do that, just yet, but it's obvious that leaving would be counterproductive. 

So she doesn't point out that it's getting late; and she doesn't say anything about how she was planning to sleep in her own bed tonight and even if this is a surprisingly nice house, she just doesn't know how to feel about having a sleepover with her gay BFF and two strippers; and she is _definitely_ not sleeping on that skinny little couch so someone had better be prepared to be a gentleman if it gets any later.  She just takes the drink that Cooper hands her and sneaks peeks at where Blaine's settled on the floor by Kurt's feet, watching him scoot closer to Kurt by increments until his head's resting on Kurt's knee and Kurt's hand settles, fluttery and tentative, on Blaine's over-gelled head. 

When she looks back at Cooper, he's watching Kurt and Blaine, too, his eyes soft and almost a little bit wistful, and somehow, that makes Mercedes feel better, even though she couldn't say why. 

"Okay, but I have to ask," Kurt says, still playing with the crispy-straight strands of Blaine's hair, a wondering smile slowly blossoming on his face as he realizes that he can do this.  "I mean, I feel like my stage name was pretty much the obvious choice, and I get where 'Big Time Cooper' comes from.  But 'Baby' just seems like..."

Blaine groans and buries his face in Kurt's leg, and Cooper busts out laughing.  "Oh, this is the _best_ \--" he says, and Blaine groans again.

"Cooper," he says, voice muffled by the fabric of Kurt's jeans.  "Cooper, _no_."

"See, what you need to know about Blaine," Cooper continues, his smile stretching wider until it looks practically _evil_ , "is that when he was a kid, his absolute favorite movie in the whole wide world was --"

" _No_ ," Blaine says again, but Mercedes is pretty sure he's laughing; at least, his shoulders are shaking, which means he's either laughing or crying, and Kurt's not freaking out, so that means he's not crying, which implies that he's laughing.  "Coop.  No."

"-- _Dirty Dancing_ , and he went through this whole phase where he watched it literally every night, and I guess somewhere along the line he decided that, since he's got curly hair and Jennifer Grey has curly hair and their noses are kind of similar --"

"Oh _God_ ," Blaine moans, but he doesn't stop Cooper from laying out the whole ridiculous, embarrassing thing, and Kurt pets Blaine's hair and rubs the back of his neck and smiles and smiles and smiles, and Mercedes isn't totally sure what it is, and maybe it's just that Cooper keeps giving her too much rum and not enough Diet Coke, but there is a moment where she realizes that, actually, Blaine is plenty capable of taking care of Kurt.  And it makes her happy, but it also hurts in this weird way that she can't quite figure out, and she doesn't know what to do about that.

But she laughs when the story's over, and she lets Cooper take her empty glass and bring her another drink, and when Kurt turns his big, beaming smile at her (Blaine's head still on his knee, Blaine's hand wrapped loosely around his ankle), she smiles back at him.

  
*  
  
It is too damn bright in this room, and there's someone knocking on the door, and she can't feel her underwires poking her anywhere weird and her best skinny jeans aren't crawling up her behind which means she is almost certainly not wearing anything but her shirt and panties, so she scowls and pulls the blankets up higher and mutters, "That better be you, Kurt Hummel," before resolutely turning her face into the pillow.  She is not above faking sleep if she has to.  
  
The door creaks open and Kurt calls, soft and apologetic, "It's only me," and Mercedes begrudgingly lifts her heavy head from the pillow, squinting her eyes open.  It is way, way too damn bright in this room.  "Here," Kurt adds, tiptoeing towards the bed; he's got a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other.  "Thought these might help."  
  
She pushes herself upright, wincing as the movement jostles her aching head and churning stomach, and yeah, she is definitely not wearing a bra, and has to lift an arm to pin the girls down a little bit, because right now, she just doesn't need to deal with the pull and the swaying every time she moves.  Kurt settles down next to her, so featherlight he barely even shifts the bed (although even that little movement makes her feel seasick), hands her the water, and opens up the pills.  He shakes two out in his hand and feeds them to her, and she chases them with the entire glass of water, and tries not to think about the fact that she won't have Kurt to do this for her all the time now that he's dating a stripper, because that's the kind of thinking that got her this hangover in the first place.    
  
(Well, that and the fact that Cooper apparently can't have anyone over at his house without trying to fill their drinks every thirty seconds, and it's not like Mercedes has a problem with a gorgeous man waiting on her hand and foot, but obviously one of them should've been keeping track of how much she'd had, because she definitely had a little bit too much last night, judging by the mess she's in this morning.)  
  
"You gonna be all right?" Kurt asks, quietly, rubbing her back.  "Or do I need to get you out of here so you can throw up in the safety of your own bathroom?  Because we can leave right now, if you need to."  
  
Mercedes just sighs, presses the still-cool glass against her forehead, and studies her best friend as best she can with bleary, hungover eyes.  He looks put-together as always, or almost, anyway -- he's pushed his hair into a slightly tousled version of his usual pompadour, and the plaid, short-sleeved button-up he's wearing looks like it could have come from his own closet if it wasn't that barest bit too preppy for him.  But it _is_ too preppy, as are the red slacks that don't quite cover his skinny ankles, and the unbuttoned collar gives her just the smallest peek at a purple bruise hidden in the shadows of his collarbone, and there's just something about the color in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, and Kurt would drop everything to take her home, she knows that, but she's not miserable enough to be that selfish.    
  
So she presses the glass back into his hands, and says, "Baby, are you kidding me?  After all you boys put me through last night, you damn well owe me breakfast this morning.  You're lucky I'm not making you bring it to me in bed.  Because I deserve it."  
  
"After all _we_ \--" Kurt sputters, and he's trying to look outraged, but his face is all lit up like fireworks, and that in and of itself tells her she's doing the right thing.      
  
Even if her head and her stomach (and that tiny crumb of jealousy left in her heart) might be telling her otherwise.  
  
*  
  
When she finally makes it out of Blaine and Cooper's guest bedroom, hair fixed and bra on and as fabulous as a girl can be in yesterday's clothes without access to her full makeup kit, Blaine immediately descends upon her, offering tea or coffee or toast or juice or whatever she thinks might help, his voice carefully quiet, kind and sweet, his hazel eyes wide and worried.  And that's when Mercedes realizes that maybe it's not so much about what she's going to lose as it is about what she's going to gain.  That even if she does lose a little of Kurt's time, and even if she doesn't always understand why he's going where he's going or hanging around with the people he's hanging around with, maybe the time she gets to spend with Kurt and Blaine (and Cooper, because judging by the way he's hanging around the kitchen island, watching Kurt and Blaine cook breakfast together like this is the fiftieth time and not the first, he's gonna be hanging around living vicariously through the two of them for a long time) will make up for it.  
  
Maybe.  
  
After all, it's not like Mercedes hasn't seen Kurt with the "perfect boy" before.  Hell, she's had her own "perfect boys" before, and it's not like things went spectacularly wrong, exactly, but things fall apart.  And for all Mercedes knows (and she damn well better know everything, or Kurt's in trouble for keeping secrets), this is only their second date.  So it's way, way too early to tell.  
  
But as she watches them jostle each other good-naturedly by the stove, as Kurt critiques Blaine's egg-cracking technique and Blaine raises his eyebrows and shakes his head and smiles in delighted astonishment, Mercedes feels good about their chances.  
  
*  
  
(Three months later, there's a new boy at Miss Holliday's,  a blonde boy with a big mouth and kind eyes and the dorkiest moves Mercedes has ever seen on a stripper, and she finds herself torn between excitement and skepticism for reasons that are completely separate, and yet completely the same.)  
  
(But that's another story entirely.) _  
_


End file.
